


Mister Dalloway

by threesmallcrows



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Dysfunctional Family, Family Bonding, Gen, No Incest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 08:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18311729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threesmallcrows/pseuds/threesmallcrows
Summary: "It makes him want to cry again. Look at them. This goddamn family, this broke-ass, rundown, limping-on-a-sprained-ankle end-of-the-world family. His fucking family."Klaus hosts a dinner party.





	Mister Dalloway

Klaus wakes up and thinks, I’m going to host a dinner party.

 

His second thought is, _god_ , a hit would be nice.

 

He steers himself back to the first thought. It takes some effort. Christ, today is going to be long. He can feel it. Easier not to start. Why not, Klaus? He’s pretty sure he’s still got a quarter bar of special chocolate somewhere under the bed. And if not, there’s always old Reggie’s liquor stash.

 

He shakes his head. “Ben,” he announces, “I’ve decided I’m going to have a dinner party tonight.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“ _And,_ ” he adds. “I’m going to stay dry.”

 

Ben doesn’t respond.

 

“What, no applause?”

 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

 

“How you wound me. I could use a little support.”

 

Ben looks him dead in the eye and says, “I support you. I think a party is a wonderful idea.”

 

“Watch your tone. You’re this close to being disinvited.”

 

“Am I? That would be great, thanks.”

 

“In your dreams, asshole.” Klaus stretches and does the three-sniff test: armpit, crotch, breath. Not too bad, probably like a 4 out of 10 on the rancid scale. Must’ve showered last night; he has no idea. “Think there’s anything good in the dumpster?”

 

“Hey, here’s a supportive idea: if you’re going to throw a dinner party, why don’t you start by actually cooking breakfast instead of joining the raccoons? Should be easy, right?”

 

Klaus bares his teeth at him. “Brilliant.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

()

 

He goes downstairs and into the kitchen. It’s early. The room is quiet, the light of morning just beginning to pool inside, butter-yellow and warm. It’s kind of nice.

 

Five is huddled under the table.

 

Klaus thinks about taking a hit. He opens the fridge instead. It’s empty, except for an expired carton of milk. He shrugs, takes it and pours out a glass, sieving out the chunks with his pinky finger.

 

“That’s disgusting,” says Ben.

 

“What doesn’t kill you.”

 

“Are you just going to ignore him?”

 

“Me? What am I supposed to do about him?”

 

Ben widens his eyes at him, his signature are-you-serious look. “Like, anything?”

 

“Okay, okay. I’ll give it the old college try.” He gets on his knees under the table. Five is curled up tight as a fist. “Babiest brother.” No response. “Five,” he says. No response.

 

He gets back out and shrugs. “I tried.”

 

“You could try harder.”

 

“Try harder how?”

 

“Poke him with a broom or something.”

 

“As if. Have you seen the throwing arm on that kid? Unlike _some_ people, I’ve got a body to worry about. Anyway, he’s probably just asleep.”

 

He’s definitely not asleep. He’s having a flashback. Klaus’ seen enough of those to know.

 

After a moment, he gets up and finds the tin of instant coffee that Five is always bitching about. He spoons some out into a mug, adds hot water, and sticks it on the floor near Five.

 

“Now watch as these modern-day smelling salts arouse our hero from his stupor.”

 

“Please don’t use that word again.”

 

“What, arouse?” Under the table, Five makes a faint sound. “You don’t want to hear about our brother getting aroused?”

 

“Shut _up._ ”

 

“Bite me.”

 

Five groans and scrambles to his feet, knocking himself pretty good in the head in the process. “Wh’ day is it?”

 

He always asks the same question. “It’s the first of October, about eight in the morning, we stopped the apocalypse seven months ago, and you’re in the kitchen of the Academy. I made you some coffee. Instant, your favorite.”

 

Five looks dazedly at the mug next to his foot. “I hate instant coffee.”

 

“You’re sounding more like yourself already.” He raises the glass of milk. “ _Prost_.”

 

Five glares at him and zaps away.

 

()

 

What does one need to host a party?

 

Loud music, cheap liquor, condoms. Lots of E.

 

No, that’s not the kind of party Klaus is trying to throw. This is going to be sophisticated. Adult. Think: _expensive._ Think: _Hepburn._ He twirls an imaginary cigarette holder. He needs… a recipe.

 

He could ask Mom.

 

Oh. He can’t ask Mom.

 

He goes into the sitting room. All these bookshelves—there’s got to be a cookbook in here somewhere. After about twenty minutes of looking, he’s found histories and encyclopedias and dozens of biographies of old dead guys, but nary a cookbook. Typical. Dad was always more interested in the dead than the living.

 

He does find Vanya’s book, its cover dusty. Inside, she’s written: _Dad, I figured, why not? - V._

 

Klaus never hated her for writing it. Honestly. The cracks were there either way. What difference did it make whether they were hidden in the shadows or exposed to the light?

 

She’d written that he’d started drinking at twelve. It was actually ten.

 

“Ought to get a second edition published,” he mutters. “Revised and corrected.”

 

He hears footsteps behind him and turns around, and catches Vanya in the middle of trying to sneak back out of the room.

 

“Top of the morning, sister dearest.”

 

“Morning,” she says, turning back around reluctantly. “You’re up early.”

 

“So are you.”

 

“Yeah. I’ve got a—thing. Audition.”

 

“For what?”

 

“The Philharmonic?”

 

“Sounds fancy,” he says. He doesn’t know what that is. Not exactly his scene.

 

“Yeah, I guess. It’s, uh, the last round. I’ve done four already. Auditions, I mean.”

 

“Oh, wow. Big deal.”

 

“Yup.”

 

He realizes belatedly that he’s still holding her book. She’s noticed and is being obviously uncomfortable about it, in her usual Vanya way. It’s probably too late to fling it into a corner or hide it behind his back. “Alright, well…” he says, accidentally gesturing with it. She flinches. Oops. “Wouldn’t want you to be late.”

 

She retreats into the entrance hall, looking relieved. “Nope, me neither.”

 

“Good luck,” he calls after her.

 

“You forgot to tell her about the thing,” says Ben.

 

“Ah, shit. Vanya! I’ll tell her later.”

 

“You don’t have her number.”

 

“Somebody’ll have it.”

 

“Will they? It’s Vanya.”

 

He ignores him. That’s a good point, though. He should tell the others. He goes into the foyer and phones Allison.

 

“Allison, babe. It’s me.”

 

“Klaus?”

 

“The one and only. How’s your evening looking? I’m, ah, I’m having a sort of party.”

 

“A party? When?”

 

“Later. Tonight, at the house. I know, I know, bright star you are, your schedule must just be awful, probably booked up months ago… But I just thought I’d put it out there.”

 

“No, Klaus, that’s… I’d love to. Really. It’s just that Claire’s with me tonight.”

 

“We’ve got room for her too. Big old house. It’ll be perfect. None of us’ve met her yet.”

 

“Right. It’s just, I don’t know if she’s ready to… Well, you know. Our family.”

 

Right. Of course she doesn’t want her daughter to meet the junkie, let alone the rest of the freak show. “Mhm, I sure do,” he hums. “Those old Hargreeves!”

 

“Those Hargreeves.” She laughs weakly. “I’m sorry.”

 

“No no no, don’t worry your beautiful self about it. Some other time.”

 

“So you’re hosting this thing? Good on you.”

 

“Trying to. No promises.”

 

“Good luck.”

 

()

 

Luther doesn’t answer when Klaus knocks. After waiting a minute, he pushes the door open. His room looks mostly the same as Klaus remembers. The model airplane, the records. The bed is bigger. Well, it has to be, now.

 

Klaus sighs. “You know, something about this room makes me unbearably sad.”

 

“Yeah, it’s pretty depressing.”

 

“We’ll, ah, just leave him a note.”

 

He pulls Luther’s desk drawer open. Sure enough, there’s a small notepad and a pen inside. There’s also three big, shiny watches. Klaus’ pulse quickens. He literally feels himself salivate.

 

He swallows the spit down and says, “Huh. I didn’t know Luther wore watches.”

 

“Klaus.”

 

“They look new. Don’t you think they look new? I bet he doesn’t even wear these. Poor things, rotting away in a desk.”

 

“Why don’t you go next door and rob some of Allison’s jewelry, while you’re at it.”

 

“Ah, that’ll all be costume. She didn’t have the money for real jewels when we were kids.”

 

“ _Klaus_.”

 

“Don’t keep saying it, you’ll wear it out.”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“Klaus?”

 

Klaus jumps. It’s gratifying to see that Ben does too. “Luther, hey. Just the guy I’m looking for.” He looks at him looking at the open desk drawer, drawing the obvious conclusion.

 

“What’re you doing in here?” Luther asks tightly.

 

“I was going to leave you a note. About—the party.”

 

“What party?”

 

“I’m having a dinner party. Tonight. Here. You’re invited. Everyone’s invited.”

 

“For what?”

 

Klaus can’t tell if he’s being purposefully obtuse. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with Luther. “Because I feel like it. Why not?”

 

Luther shrugs. “We never celebrated it. Growing up.”

 

“Well maybe we would’ve, if Dad wasn’t such an asshole.”

 

“Dad had his reasons.”

 

“Yeah, one of them being that he was an asshole.”

 

“The killjoy is dead. Long live the killjoy,” Ben mutters. Klaus shakes his head at him. _Not helping._

 

“Just think about it,” he says, clapping Luther on one enormous shoulder. “No pressure. See you later, big guy. Or not.”

 

()

 

Fuck, he still hasn’t found a cookbook.

 

“You could try the library.”

 

“Nope. Lifetime ban.”

 

“Wait, really?”

 

“Vagrancy or solicitation, I don’t remember. Maybe both.” The need for a drink scratches at him. He’d usually have had something by now. He isn’t seeing ghosts yet, but it’s just a matter of time. He feels his willpower guttering, like a candle flame in a really, really weak breeze.

 

“Fuck it,” he says. “Let’s freestyle this bitch. We’ll just get some stuff and decide what to do with it later.”

 

He hears someone clomping heavily down the stairs and pokes his head into the entrance hall.

 

“Diego! _Buenos dias, hermano._ ”

 

“No.”

 

“But I haven’t even _said_ anything yet.”

 

“I’m erring on the side of caution.”

 

“I just need a ride to the grocery store. It’s not far. It’ll be on your way.”

 

“You don’t know where I’m going.”

 

“There’s always a grocery store on the way.”

 

“I saw Vanya go out. Why didn’t you ask her?”

 

“It’s—you know. It’s so hard to… It’s _Vanya_.”

 

After a moment, Diego sighs. “Yeah. I know.”

 

“Thank you, bless your heart.”

 

()

 

At ten in the morning on a weekday, the supermarket is pretty empty. Most of the patrons are old folks or housewives. The housewives remind him of Mom. Klaus used to love watching her, swishing around in her big skirt and her heels, curling the beautiful blonde hair that didn’t really need curling because it never grew, after all. He’d crawl into her lap and beg her to braid his hair, whisper to her, “When I grow up, I wanna be just like you.”

 

Well, that joke’s on him, isn’t it?

 

He takes a slow lap around the store, rattling an arthritic old cart with one bad wheel up and down the aisles. There’s the stuff he’s familiar with, cans and candy and packets of chips, but he’s not trying to do those.

 

“Wow. There’s a lot of stuff in here,” he whispers to Ben. “What d’you think?”

 

“It’s your party, man.”

 

“Helpful. Okay, look over here. This is a carrot. Vegetables. Those are good, right? We could do something with those. Let’s put that in.”

 

“Are you just picking things that are colorful and/or have an interesting shape?”

 

“You got a better idea?”

 

He rolls on over to the butcher counter. Ooh, look at the size of that turkey. That thing could probably stave even Luther off for a couple hours. It’ll be a bit of a challenge to filch. Klaus might just have to do a brute-force thing. If he takes off running, he could probably clear the parking lot before anyone has time to react. He squats down and looks at the shopping cart’s wheels. They don’t look like the kind that locks.

 

Great. He heaves the turkey into the cart. He glances at a huge jar of black olives nearby, glistening wetly under the glass. Suddenly, he can feel himself drooling. What the fuck, he doesn’t even like olives. Has he ever even had—

 

Oh.

 

It’s because they look like black tar.

 

Here’s how you do black tar heroin. You get the drugs, you get a spoon. You run a lighter under it and cook the heroin into liquid. You draw it up into a syringe. You tie up your arm and smack the skin until your veins appear. You slip the needle in and you disappear.

 

Here’s how you do black tar heroin. You sell. You borrow. You never pay back. You rob the warehouse you temp at. You get fired. You steal from a convenience store. You get arrested. You sleep with someone, just once. You sleep with a lot of someones, a lot of times. You get caught. You go to jail. You pawn your dead dad’s stuff. Your friends stop talking to you. Your family gives up on you. You give up on them.

 

You stop the apocalypse.

 

You decide to throw a dinner party. You bum a ride off your brother. You stand in a grocery store and the sight of a jar of olives lights your skin on fucking fire.

 

“Klaus.”

 

He hates the way Ben says it. That note of fucking disappointment, like it’s a foregone conclusion what Klaus will do. Everybody expects him to fuck this up. Everybody. It feels real shitty to know that, and it feels even shittier to realize he deserves it.

 

He fights the urge to pitch the jar into the wall. Wouldn’t do to get himself thrown out already. He hisses at Ben, “Shut _up_.”

 

Someone standing very close behind him asks, “You okay?”

 

Klaus starts violently. “Wh—Oh, hey, hi man. Thought you, uh, had work.”

 

Diego shrugs. “I was almost there, but then I realized I left my baby brother in a store with a big jacket and a lot of empty pockets.”

 

“Since when do you care?”

 

“Since I’m studying to get into the academy again.”

 

“You’re already in the Academy.”

 

“Police academy.”

 

“Oh. You still, uh, want to do that?”

 

Diego’s expression hardens. “Yeah,” he says shortly. “I do.” He nods his chin at the turkey. “I don’t think you’re gonna be able to smuggle that out.”

 

“People have a habit of underestimating me.”

 

“There’s food at the house.”

 

“Actually, there isn’t. I checked. Where, uh, where’d’you think oregano is?”

 

“What do you need oregano and a whole turkey for?”

 

“Well, if you must know, I’m hosting a little get-together tonight. Love it if you could come.”

 

“You are?”

 

“Why is that—why does everyone always have that reaction? Can’t I want to do nice things?”

 

“Because it’s—you.”

 

 _Yeah, motherfucker, you think I don’t know that?_ Klaus puts his hands over his heart and makes a sulky face. “Ouch. Point taken. All right, well I’m off in search of herbs—not that kind—have a great day.”

 

Diego steps in front of his cart. “You’re seriously going to steal all this shit?”

 

Klaus pushes it a little into Diego’s knees, earning him a glare. “Sorry,” he snaps, “would you rather I stole more of Dad’s things and pawned them and then paid for these in cash? This seemed a little more direct.” He leaves out that he’d thought about doing that, but then he almost certainly would already have slunk into a certain little alleyway not far from here and been lying in some crackhouse doped out of his mind.

 

Diego looks at him. Slowly, he says, “If I give you money, will you swear that you’ll spend it on this and not—anything else?”

 

“Cross my heart and swear on my grave.”

 

“I don’t think you give two shits about your grave.”

 

“... Fair.”

 

“Swear on Mom.”

 

“Yeah, sure, whatever, I—

 

“Bro.”

 

Klaus sighs. Diego has such a flare for drama. “Okay, okay, yes, I swear on Mom, god bless and may she rest in peace.” He watches hungrily as he counts out several twenties. “Might want to throw in another one, I don’t know if that’s gonna cover all—”

 

“Don’t push it.”

 

“Love you.”

 

()

 

Outside the alleyway, Klaus pauses.

 

He’s still got twenty bucks change in his pocket.

 

“You swore on Mom.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’ve sworn on a lot of things.”

 

“Diego’s gonna be pissed.”

 

“Like that’s new.”

 

“He didn’t go with you through that checkout. He could’ve babysat you, but he didn’t. He gave you the money and let you go because he wants to trust you. Let him do it.”

 

Klaus says nothing. After a second, Ben sighs, long and loud. “Whatever. He’s gonna be pissed, but I sure as hell can’t say he’ll be surprised.”

 

Klaus lets go of the cart’s handle. Takes one step into the alley, and then another. Pauses.

 

He imagines her there. Blooming like a flower in the dingy alley, spinning and spinning in the sunlight, turning her smile skywards like a second, fallen star.

 

()

 

Klaus makes it back to the house, but without the twenty. In the end, he had to take his lighter and burn the bill to get himself to move away from the alley. He doesn’t think Diego will mind.

 

He parks the shopping cart in the kitchen and goes back upstairs into the sitting room and its forest of books. “C’mon, Mom. You must’ve left something in here.”

 

“I don’t know, maybe Dad put everything she needed in her. He did make her.”

 

“No,” Klaus murmurs. “She wasn’t just—some science project. You didn’t see, at the end… She—”

 

“Wait, hang on. What’s there? Behind that book.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Pull it out, the one you’re holding. Is there a second layer of books in here?”

 

Klaus whistles. “By god, Watson, you’ve done it.” There _are_ more books back there, hidden behind the front row like kids playing hide-and-seek. He takes one out. _Critical Care and Good Nursing, sixth edition._ Definitely not Dad’s speed. He sticks his arm in the gap and feels around in the depths of the bookshelf.

 

“Are there more?”

 

“Feels like it.”

 

He sandwiches his arms around a section of books and pulls the whole stack out, dumping it on the floor because fuck Dad’s stuff. He does it again, and again. _Good Housewifery. 30 Crochet Patterns for Advanced Knitters. Mastering the Art of French Cooking._

 

“Now we’re in business.”

 

()

 

“Step one. Trim the—how do you trim a bean?”

 

“With scissors?”

 

“That can’t be right. And what’s a giblet? _Julienne?_ What are these words? What do words mean?” He stabs a knife at the turkey and it clangs off. “And why is this turkey so hard?”

 

Ben shrugs. “I know as much as you do. Didn’t some of your—didn’t some of those guys know how to cook?”

 

“Yeah maybe, but I sure as hell wasn’t paying attention.” As if he was even capable, rolled out of his mind while whoever was his keeper that week clattered around in the background. All he was good for was spreading his legs and searching for usable veins.

 

He can feel himself sweating. His legs are getting a little weak. He pictures drawing up a big, fat syringe of the hard stuff and mainlining himself straight into the middle of next week. He wants it so bad. He can taste it in his fucking mouth.

 

“You could try Five,” says Ben.

 

“I’m tired.”

 

“Dude. You’re fine. Try calling Five.”

 

“Okay, okay.” He sticks his head into the stairwell. “Five! _Five!_ Where’s that little fucker? Should I go threaten Dolores?”

 

“I don’t think that’s a great idea. Doesn’t he have, like, an arsenal in his room?”

 

“Well, wouldn’t be the first time I’ve played dodgeball. Let’s g—”

 

Five phases into view, flashing through Ben. Klaus winces. Rude.

 

“What in god’s name are you yelling about?”

 

“Ah, finally.” He watches Ben give Five a murderous look as he steps out of him. “Be a dear and trim these string beans for me.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Trim them. _You_ know.”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“I thought you, quote, knew how to do everything, end quote.”

 

“There were. No. String. Beans. In. The. Apocalypse.”

 

Klaus tries not to laugh. He really does. But it’s nearly impossible to keep a straight face when your five-foot-nothing assassin kid brother utters this kind of shit, especially when your other brother is already laughing his ass off in the corner of the room.

 

“ _What_ ,” Five hisses. “I don’t see you doing any trimming.”

 

“Babiest brother, I was living in a different kind of apocalypse. Ah, fuck. I think we’re going to have to go with Plan B.”

 

()

 

“‘Trim’. To make something neat, or of the required size, by cutting away irregular or unwanted parts.”

 

“Well, that tells us shit. There’s nothing about vegetables?”

 

“What’s the unwanted part of a bean, do you think? Like emotionally speaking?”

 

“Give me that.” Five seizes the dictionary from Klaus.

 

“Look at you, consulting a, a book, like the rest of us mortals. All I’m saying is, I think you need to add some terms and conditions to the whole ‘I know everything’ line.”

 

“At least I have an excuse for what I don’t know. You had string beans around. You had people.”

 

“Excuse _me_ , I actually didn’t have string beans, I had dumpster diving. You think you’re the only one with bad Twinkie experiences? Grow up.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“Language, good fucking christ.”

 

“One of these has got to have a definition.”

 

“ _One_ of these books?” Klaus gestures wildly at the library. “This is going to take all day.”

 

“Then we’d better start looking.” He glances down at the books Klaus had thrown on the floor, walks straight over them, and starts digging through the shelf. Klaus grins.

 

“I do have to say, I appreciate how on board you are with the mission.”

 

Five shrugs. “I’m bored.”

 

“Hmm, right… What _are_ you even doing nowadays, now that the whole, uh, ‘avert the end times’ shtick is over? Do you, like, go to school, or something?”

 

Five scoffs. “I don’t _go_ to _school_.”

 

“He just dresses like it,” says Ben.

 

Klaus snickers. “So what, are you just gonna wait until you turn eighteen and go back to being a hitman?”

 

“I don’t know. Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

 

“Kinda figured you would’ve.”

 

Five shrugs, paging through a book the length of his forearm. “For forty-five years, it was about making it to that day. Making it. That’s it. If I’d gotten sidetracked with daydreaming about what came next, I’d never have made it back.”

 

Honestly, Klaus feels that. For so long, his life has been a cycle of getting sober and getting high. But he’s never thought about what he’ll do if he actually stays clean.

 

“Thanks,” he says. “For not getting sidetracked.”

 

“Sure.”

 

()

 

He leaves Five browsing in the sitting room and goes back to the kitchen. At a loss for what to do, he starts spreading things out on the counter. He used to see Mom doing this; humming to herself, methodically laying the week’s nutritionally-optimized, Reginald-approved, yucky-ass dinners out.

 

Sometimes, though. Sometimes she’d make them cookies, or pie. _A little treat. Don’t tell your father._

 

Sugar haunts his tongue. Fuck, Mom. He misses her.

 

The basement door swings open, letting in a blast of cold air. Klaus waves at Vanya as she stamps in, shaking snow off her boots. “ _Willkommen_. How’d your thing go?”

 

Her shoulders slump even farther down than usual. “Not great.”

 

“Aw, hey, you don’t know that yet.”

 

“I’ve been rejected enough times. I can tell.” She shakes her head. “It’s like, no matter what I do, there’s always that... something. It’s never enough.”

 

“Oh, babe. I’m sorry.” Story of her life. Poor Vanya. The only one who wanted to be in the Academy, wasn’t. He wishes there were a way to tell her, _I would’ve swapped places with you. I wish I could have._

 

She looks at the stuff on the counter. “You, uh, cooking or something?”

 

“Oh, yeah, that reminds me. We’re having this dinner party tonight, because, _you_ know. Your presence would be much appreciated.”

 

“Oh, um.” She glances away. “I’m kind of tired, so. I think I’m good.”

 

“Aww, are you sure?”

 

“Yeah. Thanks though.”

 

He watches her trudge up the stairs. “She thinks you were trying to hide it from her,” says Ben.

 

“But you know I wasn’t,” he whispers.

 

Ben shrugs.

 

“Hey—Vanya?” Klaus calls.

 

She pauses at the top of the stairs. “Yeah?”

 

“Actually, I know you’re tired and all, but I really, really need your help.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“I don’t know how the shit to cook.”

 

“Oh, I’m not—I mean, I’m not a great cook either. I mostly just make some, uh, like simple—”

 

“Okay, sure, but before you got back, me and Five were looking up how to trim string beans in a dictionary.”

 

“... Really?”

 

“Yes.” He throws in a little puppy eye, why not, can’t hurt. Ben rolls his eyes at him. “Would you come help, pretty please? We’ll never make it without you.”

 

()

 

“Okay, so trimming a string bean, that just means you snap off the ends. Like th—”

 

“You just throw them away?” Five instantly demands. “Why?”

 

“Because it’s, I don’t know, the ends are tough to eat, I guess...”

 

“It’s a waste of food.”

 

“They’ll be better if we trim them, I swear.”

 

“We can’t just throw that much stuff away.”

 

When Five isn’t looking, Klaus shakes his head at Vanya. Five has these issues with food. He knows he doesn’t like letting people into his room because he hoards shit in there. He was probably zapping down here to steal food when Klaus saw him having his little freakout this morning.

 

“Tell you what,” Klaus says. “Why don’t you throw the ends into this bowl, and we’ll think of something to make with them later, huh? And then you can mash some potatoes, that’ll be great for you, work out some of that, uh, boiling anger of yours. Now, Vanya dear. Tell me how to do this turkey.”

 

“You can’t, uh. You can’t just, start on that. It’s, like, hard?”

 

He wiggles his eyebrows at her. “So I’d noticed.”

 

“Yeah, so you have to, uh, defrost it first.”

 

“Uh huh…”

 

She gives him a look. “Wow. You’ve really never done this before.”  


He sketches a little bow. “You’re the sighted leading the blind.”

 

()

 

There’s a drowned woman in the bathroom. She screams at him as he gingerly lowers the turkey into the bathtub.

 

_“Klaus!”_

 

He shivers and accidentally drops it the last half-foot, sending a wave of water slopping over the rim of the tub and onto him.

 

“Oh, boo. This was my nice sweater.”

 

“Hey.” Ben snaps his fingers. “Focus, man.”

 

He scrapes his hands over his face. Boy, he’s really starting to feel it. “I’m good, I’m good, I’m fine. What time is it?”

 

“Half past twelve.”

 

“Only noon, are you fucking kidding me? Jesus fucking christ.”

 

“Come on. You’re doing good. You can do this.”

 

“Yup, great, good. Ok, bird in the bath, one more thing down. Let’s go.”

 

()

 

They get themselves armed, aprons and all, and then get down to work. It’s slow fucking going. Every single kitchen implement is dusty and has to be washed before using. They keep realizing they’re missing ingredients, and Five has to zap to some store or other to buy more stuff. Plus, none of the three of them have the best knife technique, and there’s only one set of knives, which leaves Vanya trying not to nick herself with a tiny paring knife while Five whacks away with a brick-sized cleaver.

 

After the fifth time Klaus cuts himself in an hour—the shakes are starting to settle in, and there’s been three ghosts hanging around Five for the last thirty minutes—Vanya downgrades him to peeling endless bulbs of garlic. Klaus pulls a face at his growing heap of papery garlic skin. His hands are going to smell for, like, fucking-ever. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the disemboweled man who has been stumbling around the kitchen gathering his unspooling intestines drop them for the third time. Christ, couldn’t Five have stuck to guns? He had to get creative with his assassinations?

 

He pauses to smooth out the jitters in his hands. With a vengeance, he pictures rolling a pill under his tongue, the smooth hard texture of it, and accidentally throws an already-peeled clove of garlic into the trash.

 

He sighs. “So I gather you’ve been to some fancy soirees before,” he says to Vanya. “Tell me what we’re missing.”

 

“Well it’s, there’s usually a lot of, uh, awkward conversation.”

 

“Great, we’ll have that in spades. What else?”

 

“Well… Drinks? Decorations, I guess, it’s a little dreary in here… Or, where are you trying to do this thing?”

 

“Hmm. Maybe upstairs, in the dining room?”

 

Silence for a few seconds. Klaus wonders what horrible memory is going through his siblings’ minds. There’s just so many to draw from. One of Klaus’ favorites is the time he sat at the table for eighteen hours because he refused to eat dinner and Dad told him he wasn’t excused until he ate it. When he was finally allowed to get up, he fainted from head rush. He’s still proud of that one. Eighteen hours is pretty damn good for a eight-year-old.

 

Five scratches the tattoo on his wrist. “Fuck that room,” he says.

 

“...Yeah, you’re right, fuck that room. Let’s do it down here.”

 

“Definitely decorations then,” says Vanya. “We can move some stuff from upstairs.”

 

“What about drinks?”

 

“I can get them,” says Five. “I know where all of Dad’s stuff is.” He disappears in a flash of blue.

 

Klaus shakes his head. “Pocket-sized alcoholic.”

 

“Does he drink?”

 

“Oh yeah, baby, he drinks.”

 

“Uh, he probably shouldn’t. Right?”

 

“There’s a lot of things Five shouldn’t do, but that never seems to stop him.”

 

Five reappears cradling six or seven bottles in his arms. “I got a couple Pinots, Bordeaux...”

 

“More like Bored-oh, am I right? Where’s the vodka at?”

 

“Right here.”

 

Klaus grins at him. “I like how you think, baby brother. Time for a break. Pass that sweet bottle down the line.”

 

“Wait, hold on, are you guys really… You’re gonna start drinking that now?”

 

“Thought you were staying clean,” Ben adds.

 

 _In this shitshow? Cut me some slack._ They watch as the guts of the disemboweled man shoot through his hands like party streamers. Klaus shudders and turns away, bile crawling up his throat. He pours the vodka liberally into two tumblers. Shots are for babies, and Five isn’t a baby even if he looks like one. “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he says, pushing a glass over to Five. “Cheers.” He tips the drink back, but then Vanya has the audacity to get up on her itty-bitty tiptoes and swipe the glass away.

 

“Alright, that’s—I don’t think either of you need to be drinking.”

 

“Wh—It’s vodka, not ketamine! Which I’m pretty sure I’ve done.”

 

“I’m fifty eight!”

 

“Your body’s thirteen.”

 

Five shrugs. “Don’t you bounce back from things better when you’re younger?”

 

“No, what _happens_ when you’re younger is you can give yourself, like, permanent brain damage, or you get addicted and then twenty years down the road you’re—”

 

She breaks off abruptly. Neither she nor Five looks at him, but Klaus knows. She had been about to gesture at him.

 

After a second, Klaus leans over Five and takes the tumbler out of his hands. “She’s right,” he says gently. “Better take it easy, buddy.”

 

He goes to the sink with the glass and stares at the alcohol spiraling round and round down the drain. And then he turns abruptly and goes up the stairs and into the entrance hall where he leans against the staircase and breathes shuddery breaths. He’s fine. It’s fine. He’s just a little upset because of all the ghosts around Five. Christ, fuck drinking. He needs a goddamn hit. There’s always Luther’s unused watches—

 

“Hello?" He hears the gate clanging shut, the sound of heels against the walkway. Klaus scrubs his eyes hard just as Allison walks in, calling, “Anyone home?”

 

He swivels around. “Allison, hi! You came.”

 

“Afraid I can’t stay. I was just on the way to get Claire from daycare, and I was in the neighborhood, so. Here.” She passes him a huge bouquet of purple-and-white flowers. “For the party.”

 

“Aww, thank you. You look fantastic. I’m, ah, not _proper_. As you can see. Did my makeup, though. How does it look?”

 

“Your eyeliner’s a little smudged.”

 

“It’s running down your face,” Ben says.

 

Klaus ignores him. “I’m going for a gothic effect.”

 

“If by gothic, you mean drowned ghost, you hit the nail on the head. Come on.” She nods her head at the stairs. “I’ve got five minutes. I’ll help fix it.”

 

()

 

Upstairs, he sits on her bed as she gets out a little leopard-print cosmetics bag. He glances surreptitiously into her vanity mirror while she digs through it. Yup, that’s definitely the classic saw-my-ex, crying-in-a-nightclub look. Shit. He wipes his eyes quickly on his hand.

 

“Look at us,” he says. “I feel like we’re real sisters now.”

 

“Better late than never. Ok, close your eyes.”

 

“Mmkay. You smell so nice. Has anyone told you? I mean that in the last Hannibal way possible.”

 

“Thanks. Chanel number five.”

 

“Wow, okay, Chanel. Writing that one down for Christmas.”

 

Allison puts down the pencil. “Hey,” she says softly. “Are you alright?”

 

“What? Me? No, yeah, I’m fine.”

 

“It’s just.” She waves the eyeliner at him. “This isn’t waterproof.”

 

“Oh. Then I guess we’d better—stop for a sec.”

 

There’s a horrible silence as he dabs at his traitorous eyes with one of her makeup sponges.

 

“What is it?” she asks.

 

“Nothing. I’m just, ugh... I’m trying to do this whole staying clean thing. Again. And it’s just, there’s just a lot of… There’s just a lot.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Five has like, so many ghosts.”

 

“Yeah, I bet.”

 

“And he keeps trying to drink, and we’re like, _ahhh,_ you can’t drink! You’re a child, or you have a child’s body, or whatever! You’re gonna end up all fucked up! You know. I mean, you don’t let Claire drink.”

 

“Well, Claire’s only four. But yeah, I wouldn’t.”

 

Why the hell is he disappointed she didn’t say, _you’re not fucked up_? Christ, of course he is. They all are. He needs to pull himself together. “Sorry,” he says, sounding only a little bit snotty. “I don’t even know where I was going with this.”

 

She shrugs. “You don’t need a reason. Sometimes, you just gotta have a cry.”

 

“Yeah. That’s smart. How’d you get so smart, hm? Where’d you get that from?”

 

“Not this family, that’s for sure,” she laughs. “You good?”

 

“Stellar.”

 

“Cool. I can do a little eyeshadow too, if you want.”

 

“Oh my god, that would be fantastic. But I don’t want to make you late.”

 

“Claire can handle herself if I’m a little late, she’s a big girl now. Let’s do this business.”

 

()

 

After Allison leaves, Klaus sits and looks at himself in her mirror for a while. He looks pretty, like actually pretty, not his usual heroin-chic thing. This is how he could look everyday, if he had the money to buy the products she buys, if he didn’t immediately fritter every filthy cent he gets his hands on on pills and powders.

 

This is how he could look everyday, if he got clean.

 

He touches his right eyelid. Some of the color smudges off. He looks at his purple fingertip. Right. It’s just paint. Still the same old Klaus, under there.

 

He looks mournfully at Ben. “Do I look pretty?”

 

“Huge improvement. So this is what it looks like when someone actually knows what they’re doing with makeup.”

 

“Oh, fuck you.”

 

When he goes downstairs, Five says incredulously, “Did you go upstairs just to draw on your face?”

 

“Allison drew on my face, and for future reference, it’s called makeup. Ask Dolores about it sometime.”

 

Vanya stiffens. “She’s here?”

 

“She just left. Stopped by to give us these.” He holds out the flowers.

 

Vanya relaxes slightly. “Those’re nice. I’ll get a vase for them. So is she—like, coming, later?”

 

“Nope. She’s got Claire tonight.”

 

“Ah. Right.”

 

“She’s not mad at you, you know. Least not anymore.”

 

Aaand now Vanya’s not relaxing anymore. Well, so what? Someone needed to say it, and might as well be the family druggie. Sometimes he feels like he’s the court jester of this goddamn kingdom, both free and burdened to say whatever the fuck he wants.

 

He goes over to Vanya, pats her on the arm. “Here, you’re not doing so hot with that can opener. Let me give it a try.”

 

Five and all his ghosts watch Klaus with disdain as he struggles to puncture the metal. Even the disemboweled guy stops gut-gathering long enough to judge.

 

“You’re going to cut yourself.”

 

“Thanks for the critique on my form.”

 

Irritatingly, not two seconds later the opener slips out of Klaus’ weak, sweat-damp grasp and its serrated blade slices an inch-long gash down his thumb. Blood spurts across the can as Klaus gasps.

 

“You two are useless. Give it here.”

 

Klaus sticks his throbbing thumb in his mouth. “That was a fluke,” he says through the thick taste of metal. “I’m perfectly capa—”

 

“Klaus?”

 

Klaus’ blood freezes solid.

 

No. He hasn’t summoned him. He can’t be here. He can’t.

 

Klaus looks down at his own hand, curled rictus-tight around the bloody can. Okay, this is no problem. He is simply not going to turn around. He is not going to turn around because there is no one to see. Just his baby brother and—

 

“Does it hurt?” he hears him say softly, and Klaus’ next breath tears through him like shrapnel.

 

It does. It hurts so much.

 

Everything, since you left.

 

“Dave?” he breathes, and turns.

 

There he is. Standing next to Five, beautiful as moonlight with blood over his heart.

 

()

 

He thinks he says something about going to the bathroom.

 

He is running, first down the hall to Luther’s room, where he takes the watches and shoves them deep into his pocket, and then to the stairs where he sees Vanya coming out down on the landing with a question on her lips, so he turns and goes for the fire escape, bounding down the rusted metal steps four at a time, the entire structure trembling with every footstep as he prays and prays for it to break, to peel loose from the building like a rotted hangnail and bring him to the ground, to splatter him into the shape of the pieces of his heart and take him, at last, at fucking last, away.

 

Ben keeps flashing in front of him, every few steps, trying to say something to him. So Klaus runs faster and faster, imagining himself leaping over rooftops, sprinting over the highest edge. Imagines falling small and smaller into the beautiful white eye of the sun.

 

()

 

“—the rookies carry it nowadays, it’s standard issue. He’s not the only druggie out there.”

 

“Guys, I think he’s waking up.”

 

“Klaus, bro. You up?”

 

He forces his eyes open. He’s in his bedroom; he can tell by the shape of the water stain on its ceiling. He is so goddamn tired of that familiar goddamn stain, of waking up to the same view.

 

“Hey, hi everyone,” he slurs. “Whoah. Hi Diego. When’d you get here?”

 

“About the time you overdosed and we had to call him to spray Narcan up your nose,” Five says shortly.

 

“Ok, great. Anything that brings the family together. So how’s the party g-going?”

 

“It hasn’t happened yet. Who’s Dave?”

 

Klaus sees Diego’s eyes widen.

 

He squeezes his eyes shut. God, he fucking hates that Diego knows. He should cut his fucking tongue out. Why did he ever tell him about Dave?

 

His mouth still tastes like blood.

 

“Nobody,” he says.

 

“Okay, bro,” says Diego. “Let’s lay off the interrogation for a second, alright? Give him a minute. He’s going to be ok now. Why don’t you two go back downstairs, keep working on the stuff?”

 

“Well we’re not… we can’t—have it. The party. Now. Right?”

 

“Why not? Just because Klaus started it doesn’t mean he has to do everything himself. We’ll help him. Seriously, go, guys. We’ll be down in a minute.”

 

After a moment, Vanya nods and pulls Five out of the room. Diego turns to Klaus. “How you feeling?”

 

“Peachy goddamn keen.”

 

“So you saw Dave.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“ _That_ Dave?”

 

“He was with Five.”

 

Diego pales. “Shit.”

 

“It happened because of me,” Klaus says shakily.

 

“Come on, that’s not necessarily—”

 

“When Five was working for those guys, he was in the division that dealt with the apocalypse, right? Well, the only reason I came back is because he died. It makes sense. Five had to kill him because otherwise I wouldn’t have come back, and if I hadn’t come back the apocalypse wouldn’t have started.”

 

“Aw, fuck. You think?”

 

“I know.”

 

“Shit’s heavy.”

 

“Yeah.” He sniffles loudly. “It’s, uh, it’s stupid, but sometimes I wish—”

 

“Don’t say it,” Ben says softly.

 

“—I wish Five had killed me, you know? We were right fucking next to each other, he could’ve easily… and then Dave wouldn’t have... And it would be, you know, over. Because sometimes I just, I get tired and I can’t, I just want...”

 

Diego’s face creases. “Hey, man, don’t… You can’t say that shit. Don’t say that.”

 

“I know, but I do, I still...”

 

Diego reaches over and crushes him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he says into Klaus’ hair. “I’m so sorry.” He keeps saying it as Klaus cries and cries into his chest like a child, the crying tearing through him like he’s paper, and the pain of it and Dave and the withdrawal melding together into one big hurt that Klaus is so afraid is never going to go away, not fucking ever.

 

Eventually, he cries himself out. It doesn’t take long. He’s so tired from the withdrawal, it’s like his body just runs dry. Diego still has a hand on the back of his neck. Klaus leans into it. It’s warm, feels nice.

 

“Come downstairs with me,” Diego says quietly. “Come on.”

 

“I’m tired.”

 

“Ok, but I gotta stay here with you, bro.”

 

“No no no, you go on down. I’m just gonna, uh, sleep for a while.”

 

“Klaus, I’mma be straight with you, I’m not feeling great about leaving you by yourself.”

 

“Yeah, that’s.” He sniffles. “Probably fair.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Your call. Downstairs or upstairs? Downstairs is like upstairs, except there’s like, light, and better company. And food.”

 

()

 

Klaus is so fucking thankful that neither Five nor Vanya acknowledges him as he stumbles into the kitchen, trying not to lean on Diego’s arm and mostly failing.

 

“Here.” Diego pulls out a chair at the table. “Sit. Just chill out.”

 

Klaus sits. He greys out. Watching vaguely as his siblings move around him. Vanya finding Five a step stool so he can reach the upper cabinet drawers. Diego showing Vanya how to peel a potato using the paring knife. Five yelling at Diego for dicing things too slow— _thought you were the knife expert—I can only manipulate thrown objects, dumbass—then why don’t you try throwing it at the onion—maybe I will—guys, please, I don’t think that’s, let’s not—_

 

Vanya handing him a big steel bowl: “Hi, Klaus? Could you help whisk this—please. Thank you.”

 

Diego’s hand on his shoulder, just for a second.

 

Five, holding out a pan of something with pink oven mitts: “Taste this. Is it good?”

 

Klaus tastes it. He nods weakly. It does, it tastes fucking fantastic.

 

It makes him want to cry again. Look at them. This goddamn family, this broke-ass, rundown, limping-on-a-sprained-ankle end-of-the-world family. His fucking family.

 

()

 

A long while later, Klaus leaps up and shouts, “She’s still in the water!”

 

“ _Madre de_ fucking _dios_ —what? Who’s in the water?”

 

()

 

They huddle around.

 

“Guys, I don’t know. We might, there might not be enough time for it to cook, it’s already almost five. And we have tons of other food already...”

 

“But it’s my _piece de resistance._ This bird is supposed to be the Hargreeves Sistine Chapel.”

 

“Some Sistine Chapel.”

 

“Fuck it, let’s just go for it. So we just gotta take this and shove it up its ass?”

 

“That’s not… I’m, uh, I’m pretty sure that’s its neck. Used to be.”

 

“Neck, whatever. Still seems indecent.”

 

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry to have to do this.”

 

“Aw yeah, get it in there.”

 

“Ugh, Diego, don’t be gross.”

 

“I’ve had my hand in worse.”

 

“ _Klaus_.”

 

“Okay, done and dusted. And according to this, now that she’s stuffed, we have to do some bird BDSM.”

 

“Can I leave for this part? Like, can I actually leave?”

 

“I think this is gonna be at least PG-13, so Five had better turn around too.”

 

“Ha fucking ha, that’s hilarious. Haven’t heard that one before. Give me that thread.”

 

“Oh, _you_ want to do it? Be my guest.”

 

“... Guys, should we be concerned that he’s this good at tying stuff up? Search the house for hostages?”

 

“There’s just something so… wrong... about watching someone sew meat.”

 

“You give yourself enough stitches, you get used to it.”

 

“ _Blurgh_ , Five, gross.”

 

()

 

By around seven, everyone has more or less collapsed. Diego has dragged a chair in front of the sink and is sitting as he half-heartedly chips away at the mountain of dirty dishes. Vanya and Five slouch together on top of a counter, alternately stealing licks of sugar out of an open jar sitting between them, occasionally reaching over to dry a dish. Klaus is laying in the stolen shopping cart—not that he wouldn’t be more comfortable on a couch upstairs, but he feels like he should be here for moral support.

 

The entire long table is full—like totally, full-on last-supper-style laden with food. If Klaus wasn’t so tired, he’d feel impressed.

 

The gate clatters upstairs. “Hello-ooo?”

 

Vanya jumps up. “Is that—”

 

Klaus sits up just in time to see Allison _and_ Luther come down the stairs, Allison trailing a bunch of gold balloons and Luther holding a white sheet cake the size of a television screen. “Guys, my goodness, this is so nice! Have y’all been working all day?”

 

“Feels like all year,” Five mutters as he bats a loose balloon away.

 

Luther circles the table. “I can’t believe you guys made all this.”

 

“ _I_ can’t believe we made all this,” Vanya echoes, looking around with a kind of shell-shocked expression on her face.

 

“And Diego, when’d you get here?”

 

“Long story.”

 

Klaus catches sight of a tiny person ducking behind the tail of Luther’s coat. “Who’s this?”

 

“Oh, guys—sweetie, quit hiding down there, none of them bite—sorry guys, meet Claire.”

 

“Hey, honey.” Klaus sticks out a hand, and after a few seconds the little girl reluctantly takes it. “Nice to meetcha. I love your nails. Rose-pink is _très chic_.”

 

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I… I like your nails too.”

 

“That one’s Uncle Klaus. And then right-to-left here, we’ve got Auntie Vanya, Uncle Diego, and Uncle Five. Say hi.”

 

“H.. hi…” The little girl ducks behind her mother’s skirt again. “Why don’t they look like you?” she loudly whispers up at Allison.

 

“We’ve been over this, baby, it’s just like with your Uncle Luther. We’re adopted. Klaus, babe, your face! What happened to all the work I did?”

 

“Oh, it kind of—came off.”

 

“Well, we still got a while before this shindig starts, right? Luther, why don’t you pitch in with some of those dishes, and I’ll get Klaus fixed up.”

 

()

 

“You got anything waterproof? Like, _really_ waterproof.” Klaus gestures at his face. “Cause I don’t know how long I’m gonna be able to keep the whole, uh, fluids situation contained.”

 

“Withdrawal?”

 

“That’s the bitch.”

 

“How bout this? It’s certified ‘my shitty ex got custody’-level waterproof.”

 

“Perfect.”

 

“We’ll just do a cat-eye, nothing elaborate. Look down for a sec.”

 

Klaus looks down. “Oh my gosh,” he says, “you came! And Luther!”

 

“Yeah, I sort of lured him into a playdate with Claire and then the two of us talked him round.”

 

“And _Claire!_ I could dance a jig, she’s so cute. And hey, added bonus, since she’s here everybody’ll probably keep their claws to themselves.”

 

“Let’s hope so, she’s already kinda overwhelmed as it is. Not to mention I think she has a little bit of a crush on Five. Alright, now look at the ceiling.”

 

“Yikes. You’ve got to talk her out of this whole older man thing. Take it from me, it doesn’t get better with time.”

 

“I’ll have to give her the, uh, whole time-travel talk sometime. Maybe when she’s a little older.” Allison caps the liner neatly, and leans back to survey her work. “You look good.”

 

“Aw shucks. Can’t hold a candle.”

 

“Hey, can I be serious for a moment?”

 

“Only if you absolutely have to, I’m terribly allergic to earnestness.”

 

“This is amazing. This whole party. You did really good.”

 

“Oh, please, I didn’t do shit. I mean, that was my original plan, for me to get everything ready and have it be a surprise, but in the end Vanya and Five and Diego had to do most of the work.”

 

“Klaus. Come on. This would’ve never happened without you, and you know it.”

 

He smiles a little at her. “Maybe not, huh?”

 

()

 

When they come back downstairs, everyone is beginning to settle down around the table. Half of them have already started eating. Klaus watches as Luther takes a literal soup ladle and carves an enormous crater in the green-bean casserole. Rolling his eyes, he goes over to the oven, opening it and precariously sliding out the turkey on its tray. When he slices into its side, the meat inside is still wet and pink.

 

“Oh boo, you whore.”

 

“Klaus, it’s fine,” Ben says. “You guys made enough to feed an army already.” When Klaus gives him a sulky face, he sighs and says, “You could try deep frying it. I think that’ll cook it instantly, right?”

 

“Is deep-fried turkey a thing?”

 

“It’s America. Deep-fried anything is a thing.”

 

“You’ve got a point. So what, do I just drop it in a vat of oil?”

 

“I think so.”

 

After some hunting, Klaus drags the deepest pot he can find out of the cupboard and onto the stove. After filling it halfway up with oil, he turns the range to the highest setting.

 

“Klaus, quit puttering around in there and come eat.”

 

“In a sec.”

 

God, the kitchen looks like a war zone. Allison and Luther are definitely going on cleaning duty after this.

 

He props open the pot lid. Inside the oil is bubbling fiercely as a jacuzzi and spitting fit to put out an eye. Both him and Ben recoil. They look at one another for a second.

 

“I don’t know about this,” Ben says warily.

 

“Come on. Remember King Kong?”

 

King Kong was what they had called the biggest, gnarliest old tree in their courtyard. When they were kids, it had been an ongoing contest between the seven of them to see who could climb to its top. Whoever did first, they promised one another, would get to build a treehouse there and be the ruler of King Kong. The tree was full of challenges: wood that sent dozens of splinters into your hands, a tall, bare trunk with few footholds, brittle branches prone to snap under the weight of a footstep, and the cherry on top, an ancient and very active hornet hive wedged near the cleft of the trunk.

 

King Kong was supposed to be every child for themself, but Ben and him, they’d made a secret agreement that they’d conquer the thing as a team and rule their treehouse together. Not that either of them were great at climbing, but every time they’d see Diego or Luther in danger of clearing the trunk, they’d get out slingshots and pelt the nest with pebbles, sending a pissed-off cloud of hornets streaming around the courtyard. More often than not, they’d get stung too, but it was worth it to keep the others from winning the game.

 

“King Kong” became this thing they said to one another before sneaking out of the house, or stealing donuts from Griddy’s, or patching up a bloody nose after a fight, or after one or the other of them returned shaking and pale from one of Dad’s fucking training sessions. Something that meant some mix of “I dare you” and “be brave” and “I’m here.”

 

No one ever won King Kong. One day, for no apparent reason, they stopped playing. And then Five happened, and then Ben, and the hating and the hurting pushed them one by one out of the house, and none of them had ever looked back.

 

When Klaus returned for the funeral, he looked up at the old tree, and the wasp nest was caved in and long empty, peeling in grey flakes into the wind.

 

He hasn’t thought about King Kong in a long time, and by the look on Ben’s face, neither has he. Suddenly, Ben breaks into a grin. “Fuck yeah,” he says. “Let’s King Kong this baby.”

 

Klaus smiles and unsteadily heaves the tray up, propping one edge against the rim of the pot. As he does, he sees Vanya suddenly stand up at the far end of the table.

 

“Klaus,” she says urgently. “I don’t think—”

 

He looks at her and smiles.

 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

 

And then he slides the turkey in.

 

()

 

Klaus remembers the first time he saw fireworks.

 

It was before Ben, before Five. They’d probably saved someone or stopped some crime that day—not that he remembers, but Dad wouldn’t have let them out to celebrate otherwise. They’d all gone together, even Vanya, piling into Pogo’s old station wagon as he drove them far, far out of the city.

 

“But Pogo, why do we have to go _all_ the way out here? Everybody else is watching it in the city.”

 

“There’s a secret spot I know, just across the river. We’ll have it all to ourselves.” And they did, tumbling out into the cooling evening air just as the first fireworks launched into the sky. They ended up huddled together on the roof of the car, hugging one another tight to keep themselves from sliding off as explosion after explosion rocked the night, the stars come impossibly alive, just for them.

 

Ben’s ankle in his hand, Diego’s arm around his shoulder, Allison warm at his back. The sound of Vanya’s laughter ringing loud through the night, rarer than gold.

 

God, they were so young.

 

Yeah. That was nice.

 

()

 

“Holy _fuck!”_

 

The blast of fire easily clears the height of the kitchen. It flares out against the ceiling and rolls halfway down one wall, like an actress fanning out her skirt. The sheer force of it knocks Klaus onto his ass on the floor. Diego hauls him away by the collar of his shirt just as one of the kitchen curtains explodes into flame.

 

“Oh, oh my god, oh shit.”

 

“Give me that bowl.” Luther runs to the sink and fills it with water before hurling it at the growing flames. The fire _splatters_ , jetting everywhere like a bomb going off and starting dozens of mini-fires. “What the hell!?”

 

“Grease fire,” Diego shouts. “Water ain’t gonna work.”

 

“What d’you mean, water won’t work?”

 

“Luther, don’t—”

 

Somewhere in the house, a bell begins clanging. The second bowlful of water makes direct impact with the open pot. Fire flares ten feet in every direction.

 

“Luther, goddamnit! Quit it!”

 

Claire starts to cry, and then cuts off abruptly as she vanishes in a flash of blue. Allison screams. “Claire!”

 

“I moved her outside,” says Five, blurring back into place. “I’m going to go get Dolores.”

 

“Are you fucking serious? Dolores isn’t even re—mmph— ”

 

Klaus slaps a hand over Diego’s mouth. “Just let him do his thing. Come on, guys, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

 

“Wait. We can’t go, we have to put this out.” Luther looks around, desperate, wild-eyed. “How do we put it out?”

 

“Starve it of air, but I don’t see no way of accomplishing that. Klaus’ right, we gotta get out of here.”

 

“We can’t leave. We can’t—the Academy, we have to save it, it’s the only thing left.”

 

“Friend, it’s the house or us.” When Luther still doesn’t move, Diego mutters “fuck it,” gets a handful of his coat and begins bodily dragging him towards the ground-floor door. Allison jumps into motion and starts pulling at him too. Klaus joins Vanya and runs out and up into the street.

 

Then they’re all outside, standing in the street as smoke begins to crawl up from the pavement. The fire alarms are going off full force now, and some of their neighbors are beginning to peek out from doors and windows.

 

“Holy hell,” breathes Ben. “You really did it.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You managed to torch the place. High-five.”

 

Diego awkwardly pats Luther’s back as he stares thunderstruck at the growing flickers of orange. “Breathe, big guy. It’s gonna be okay. It’s just a house. We’re all—wait,” he says, right as Allisons asks, “Where’s Five?”

 

“Why isn’t he back out yet?”

 

“Where’d he go?”

 

“He said he was going back for Delores.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Delores! His girlfriend, she, the, uh—”

 

“The fucking _mannequin?_ Chrissake—”

 

There’s a moment where they all just look at each other.

 

“Mommy,” says Claire, her voice thin and wobbly. “The house is burning down.”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Klaus, and sprints for the front door.

 

Before he even gets two feet into the entrance hall Diego has legged it past him and is halfway up the stairs. “Five, you tweedy-legged little shit,” he shouts as he runs towards their bedrooms, “quit sweet-talking your girl and let’s _go!”_ Klaus slows, panting and coughing at the foot of the stairs. The entrance hall is already beginning to cloud over with smoke pouring upwards from the basement level.

 

“He’s not up here!”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“Downstairs,” Ben shouts over the growing roar of fire. “Maybe he went back for us.”

 

“Klaus, wait, it’s not safe to—”

 

He hurls himself down the stairs, sharp pains stinging his palms—the metal railings are piping hot. The smoke is like a monster, thick and huge and alive, crawling hot as pitch to meet him, searing down his throat and blinding him. He coughs and coughs, nearly wretching as he trips and falls down the last couple steps into the kitchen. Klaus can’t even tell if his eyes are open, everything is a rage of red and orange and black, he can’t see, he can’t _see._

 

“Five! Five—”

 

There. He’s kneeling on the floor. Not moving. Cradling Delores in his arms. He turns a little as Klaus shouts, and looks straight through him, tears and ash streaking down his young, young face.

 

Oh, god. The fire.

 

Ben has gone to stand next to Five, screaming at him to move, and there’s this moment where Klaus looks at the two of them silhouetted by the swallowing flames, and everything gets confused, everything just—slips. And Klaus thinks, oh no, oh, please,

 

Five,

 

not you, too.

 

You didn’t deserve this.

 

Then Ben is standing over him, trying to shake him. For just a moment Klaus feels them: Ben’s fingers on his shoulders, heavy, _real_.

 

“Hey asshole, he’s not dead!” he yells.

 

Then his hands slip through Klaus’ shoulders, and Klaus wakes the fuck up. Seizing Five by the jacket, he drags him towards him, away from the door, already gone up in flame. He spins, looking for a way out, but everywhere he looks is rippling with fire so heavy it looks like flowing orange water. He kneels on the floor, hunches over Five, trying to keep the fire away.

 

“Five,” he sobs, “Hey, wake up. It’s not real. The world didn’t end. Please. You need to take us out of here. Five!”

 

Five sucks in a breath, and then he looks at him. Really looks at him.

 

()

 

“Oh, jesus!”

 

“Fucking finally—”

 

“They’re on fire—someone—”

 

“Luther, your jacket!”

 

Something huge and heavy descends over them like nightfall, blotting out the moon and the stars.

 

And then, finally, everything is quiet.

 

()

 

The nurses fuss over Five a lot. Like, more than necessary. Klaus gets it, he really does: look at him being brave with his skinny little arms and his cute little face and his adorable little dimple, someone give the boy a fucking lollipop. But he’s killed people, for fuck’s sake! Not to mention that as soon as it’s not his own damn family trying to take care of him, Five is being irritatingly patient about being babied.

 

When the nurses finally leave them alone, Klaus reaches over and jabs Five with his elbow. “You’re enjoying this, you little fucker.”

 

“I’m tolerating it.”

 

“Whatever. I’m telling Dolores when we get back.”

 

Five pokes the bandage over his stomach unflinchingly. “You think I’ll get a cool scar?”

 

“ _That’s_ what you want out of this? If you want scars, let me know, or any of us really. Kind of, ah, local specialty. You’ll get the family discount.”

“Who was Dave?”

 

“Oh, jesus. What do you want from me to let it go, huh? Twenty bucks? Kneel on the ground and beg? Choose the second one, I don’t have twenty bucks.”

 

“Did I kill him?”

 

Klaus thinks about lying, but—who is he kidding, it’s Five. He’d know. He shifts very, very slowly to lie facing upwards, groaning loudly. Five can play the brave trooper all he wants; Klaus’ arm hurts like a motherfucker and he’d like the world to know.

 

“That you did,” he says. “That you did. But it wasn’t your fault. I get it. Sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do. Survival, the job. The daily grind. You know.”

 

Five is silent for a while. After a moment, he says, “I think—you’d survive the apocalypse best. After me, obviously.”

 

“Awww, Five. Do you really mean it?” Is he tearing up? He’s fucking tearing up. Wow, this day has really done him in. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year.”

 

“Really? That’s kind of fucked up.”

 

“C’mere.” Klaus crawls painstakingly off his bed and onto Five’s. “Bring it in.”

 

“No, don’t—”

 

He lassos him into a hug that’s sort of a hybrid between ‘chokehold’ and ‘wrestling a greased weasel.’

 

“You got him good,” laughs Ben, leaning against an unused IV stand. “He looks like a wet cat.”

 

“Don’t you dare zap out of this. You’re going to lie here and you’re going to like it. Think of England.”

 

“I’m _going_.”

 

“Aw, pwease don’t zip-zap. It’ll hurt me.”

 

“It won’t hurt you.”

 

“It will.”

 

Five rolls his eyes. “I swear to god…” Klaus hears him mutter. “You have five seconds.” But he doesn’t leave.

 

()

 

“Damn, today sucked.”

 

“It’s not your fault.”

 

“But it fucking _sucked_ , man.”

 

“Yeah. Kinda.”

 

“... I’m bored.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“And I’m fucking starving. Are you hungry?”

 

“I could eat.”

 

“How much longer are we supposed to be in here?”

 

“Til tomorrow morning.”

 

“Fuck that. Wanna break out of here and go to Griddy’s?”

 

“... Yeah.”

 

()

 

They don’t have cake at Griddy’s. They don’t sell it there, and the one Luther had brought got burnt up in the kitchen, along with, you know, the entire rest of the kitchen. So everybody orders their own thing. It’s probably for the better. Klaus doesn’t think any of them even likes cake.

 

They buy glazed donuts and jelly-filleds and sprinkleds, and egg scrambles and sausage links and pancakes, and coffee for Five and a milkshake for Claire, and Klaus gets two plates of waffles and says it’s because he’s starving, even though he’s actually not that hungry anymore and one is for Ben, because it’s his day, too.

 

“You idiot,” says Ben, staring at the waffles. “I can’t eat.”

 

“Well Allison’s paying, so who cares?”

 

“Is Ben here?” Diego waves at nothing. “Hey dude.”

 

“He’s actually over there. He says hi.”

 

“Well,” says Vanya, drowning a pancake in syrup. “Happy birthday to us.”

 

“God, finally someone says it.”

 

“It was, uh… Definitely one hell of a party.”

 

“Oh, don’t remind me. All that work gone up in smoke,” Klaus moans. “And half the house burnt down.”

 

“You ask me, the house burning down is a bonus, baby.”

 

“Diego!”

 

“What? I’m serious. Fuck that place. Fuck all those ghosts—”

 

“He doesn’t mean it like _that_ , Ben—”

 

“—all the memories, all the fucking shit that happened in there. _Fuck_ that. That time is over. We saved the world once, we saved it good, and we don’t have to do no more of that world-saving shit again, _ever_.”

 

“Unless we want to.”

 

“That’s true.”

 

“So whose house are we gonna burn down next year? I vote Diego’s, that gym is a shithole.”

 

“ _Hey_. This is not a democracy.”

 

Klaus snaps his fingers. “It was Ben!”

 

“Hm?”

 

“He was the one who told me to fry the turkey. So technically it’s _his_ fault the Academy burned down. Got to give credit where it’s due.”

 

“Oh, god, Ben,” Vanya groans. “You were supposed to be one of the smart ones.”

 

“Well, you hang out with Klaus long enough and he starts dumbing you down,” says Ben.

 

“Shut up.”

 

Five raises his coffee. “To Ben, then.”

 

“To Ben!”

 

Klaus laughs, and raises his glass—orange juice with just a _smidge_ of vodka, thank you, because what a goddamn day.

 

Best. Birthday. _Ever._

**Author's Note:**

> This has mega "we only have one brain cell and have to share it" vibes. There is a maximum of one (1) Hargreeves sibling being smart in any given scene.


End file.
